It’s a hot day. At the pharmacy the neon green sign is alternating between 11.20am and 28 °. Down at the harbour a small stage is in full sun. Stacks of speakers are vibrating to the rhythms of R & B and hip-hop that resonate around the little plaza, setting the heat haze to sound.
At the front of the stage a teenage lad in gravity-defying trousers and a crash helmet starts to spin on his head, his legs acting as balance, steering and acceleration all in one. He forward flips to his feet, sweat glistening on his neck as his body jerks to the rhythm.

High above the harbour a man is sitting on the arm of a crane playing the flute. His oversized trousers and waistcoat give him away as a clown and his Pied Piper flute is calling the Sunday strollers to follow its melody to the exotic dance that is about to take place above their heads.
From the high wire two broad black cloths unfurl to the ground. She starts to climb one of the cloths gracefully and effortlessly, her left foot wraps and unwraps to form a stepped stirrup as she pulls herself higher. Once in position, she coils a cloth around each leg, hangs upside down, her legs wide to keep the cloths apart on the ground, and waits for her lover.
He furls the cloth around his waist and she begins to reel him in, slowly, provocatively, her arms weaving him ever closer until his body draws level with hers and the lovemaking can begin.
In an erotic, aerial ballet, the lovers twist and turn; his hands always on her body, her hair on fire in the sun. Below them we are transfixed; like voyeurs, our eyes cannot leave them.

On Calle Quintana a metal pirate stands with his back to the wall. His eyes are green bulbs, his cutlass is glinting in the sunlight, his chest heaves in and out with metronomic regularity. Beyond the robot, a man sits on a cardboard horse frozen in time, his white face and broad smile set, his black eyes fixed. A small boy drops fifty cents in the basket on the ground in front of him and suddenly the jockey resumes his race, his whip hand raising and falling on the horse’s flank, the reins looping and tightening as he urges his steed forward on the spot.

In Plaza del Charco two fairies sit side by side on a settee playing a silent game of Simon Says. The small one is plying her hair idly into plaits. The tall one mimics her but only twists the strands, unable to follow where Simon has led. Contemptuously, the small one opts for an easier mimic and placing her closed hands beneath the side of her head she lies down and closes her eyes. The tall one mirrors her but keeps one eye open. The wide eyed little girls watching the show giggle at the antics of the inept fairy.
Under the laurel tree, a wood elf is dancing and beneath the canopy, children’s faces are being transformed into tigers, daisies and butterflies.